The stately trees that in the forest grow
Are not all destined for the same high thing;
Some burn to useless cinders in the glow
Of the hearth-fire; while some are meant to sing
For centuries the never-dying song
Once caught from wandering breeze or lingering bird
So clearly and so surely, that the strong
Firm wood was quickly seized by one who heard,
To fashion his dear violin;—even so
Our human souls are fashioned; some will fade
Away to useless ashes, others grow
Immortal through the sweetness they have made.